Hornes Syndrome

As the author, I claim all rights under international copyright laws. This work is not intended for sale, but please feel free to post this story to other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and text intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis for another story) is acceptable as long as the original author is given credit and the resulting story is distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of this work is expressly forbidden without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any person living or dead, nor any known situation. This story contains themes of incest and noncommittal sex, and is not meant to be read by person's under the age of 18, or the legal age in the county/state/country in which the reader resides.

If you would like a Microsoft Word version of the story, please contact me.

Tracey's breasts began to develop at the age most girl's begin to develop. Tracey's problem, however, was that they stopped developing almost at the same time. It was midway through twelfth grade, in fact, before she needed anything bigger than a AA-size bra, and then only after stuffing it with tissues to impress someone. You can imagine her inferiority complex.

The beginning of change for Trace came over the summer between the eleventh and twelfth grades. She was finally diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder called Hornes Syndrome, where the expression of certain genes, most notably those responsible for the development of breast tissue, the slimming of the waist and broadening of the hips, and the shaping of the thighs so noticeable in other post-pubescence girls, misfired. The disorder is caused by a defective gene one of the two X chromosomes every female is born with, and although similar in nature to another malady called Turner's Syndrome, it was different enough, and uncommon enough, that the doctors took six months to agree on a therapy. Once administered, however, my sister suddenly began to look more like a girl, than a skinny dude.

Perversely, Trace had always preferred tight pullover shirts, which did nothing, of course, but advertise her condition after puberty. But suddenly those same tight shirts displayed a pair of fetching, though still rather diminutive breasts, instead of the flat chest of a child. And if she wore no bra underneath, as she normally did at home in the evenings, her pointy nipples also revealed themselves. The admiring looks she now received from boys simply delighted her, and rightly so, but she seemed totally unaware of the effect they had on me,

"Oh, hi, Jack," she said carelessly one evening, meeting me in the upstairs hallway.

I choked, managing to keep my jaw from dropping as, nonchalantly, she slid past me out of the bathroom, her nightshirt sliding up her slender arms and over her head and down over her wiggly body. In that quick glimpse, I beheld two perfectly-formed, symmetrical little mounds of flesh tipped with quarter-sized pink areole and pea-size nipples.

"Tracey," I croaked, "do you really think it appropriate to be walking around topless?"

"Oh, Jack!" she guffawed, as though I'd just suggested she do her homework on a Friday night. "It's just you and me. You've seen me before."

Yeah, I thought, but not as a suddenly authentic girl, and not sauntering around in just your bikini panties. Come to think of it, those bikini panties had looked pretty good on her trim little hips.

I should note right here that Tracey and I are twins. Paternal twins, which means we share no more genes than normal brothers and sisters, and thus am not afflicted (as far as I can tell) by any genetic abnormalities. Just the opposite, in fact, if the length and breadth of my cock are any indication. (No, I'm not telling you how big it is. I'm not that much of a braggart.)

If I was honest with myself, being a twin had always been something of a drag. Shared birthdays, unisex clothes when we were growing up (she still could--and did--wear my clothes throughout middle and high school), and the burden of a gawky, half-mirror-image of myself tended to hurt my popularity. But once Trace and I hit seventeen, the miracle of a twin sister--even a malfunctioning one--suddenly manifested itself. We began going to the movies together, to the mall, to the beach, she began asking to borrow a shirt instead of just taking it out of my room, and we even helped each other with our homework. And as odd as it seems, until that night in the upstairs hallway, my seeing Trace without a shirt on was no big deal. Having no breasts, meant having nothing to hide, I guess.

What I'm trying to say, none to ably, is that I had sexual feelings for my sister even before she began to sprout breasts. And sprout they did. Almost overnight, no more than a week after beginning her pill regimen, boobs popped up on her like a couple of jack-in-the boxes. It became quite trying for me, because until then, my desire of her underdeveloped body had seemed more comical than serious. That had now changed, and I was in trouble.

The following evening, against my better judgments, I ended up in the upstairs hallway at the exact same time, expecting the exact same result. It was not to be, however. Because, along with her new-grown breasts had come new popularity, and with new popularity, attitude. This was six weeks after starting the pills, and my sister was quickly catching up at being a mouth-off. That afternoon, in fact, her mouth had gotten her grounded. (Yes, seniors in our household, especially sassy female ones, still got grounded.) She made no secret that schoolwork--any kind of work for that matter--was much less important to her than talking, texting or doing most anything else with her friends. Not exactly an endearment to Mom, who was used to Miss Wallflower obeying every word she uttered.

For my own part, I was having just as much difficulty concentrating. Images of Trace's tight young ass grinding away on my throbbing cock as we banged away at bad guys on my Playstation, her sitting on my lap as we raced cars up and down city streets in search of hapless pedestrians to plow under, hunted down aliens to slaughter mercilessly, me fighting the overwhelming need to blow a load in my pants as Trace rocked and rolled on my erection had me frantic. I never saw her that night, luckily, because chances are I would have raped her where she stood.

It was two o'clock in the morning. I was standing in the hallway outside Tracey's bedroom door. I could hear her breathing slowly and deeply inside. Down the hall, I could also hear Mom and Dad breathing in their own bedroom. The heat-pump hissed in the background and downstairs, the refrigerator's compressor kicked on.

Cautiously, I placed my right hand on the doorknob and twisted it to the right. I hesitated a moment, then inched the door open and slipped inside, easing it closed behind me. Trace stirred in her sleep, muttered softly, but did not awaken.

I waited, hands clutching the doorknob. Finally, when her breathing had resettled into a deep rhythm, I tiptoed across the room and stood beside her bed. She was on her back, sprawled beneath the covers like someone attempting a sloppy snow-angel. Blonde hair obscured half her face and every breath through her slightly parted lips fluttered a strand of hair into the air. Her bedclothes were twisted tight about her waist, and even in the dim light filtering through her bedroom window, I could see the soft bulge of her growing breasts beneath the pajama top. It was the yellow set given her for Christmas by Aunt T: a long sleeve, vee-neck top and baggy shorts with a rope tie at the waist.

I rubbed my hard-on through the front of my shorts and thought: Okay. Let's do it.

Reaching down, I took the top of the covers and dragged them down around her ankles. She stirred again and moaned in her sleep, made as though to turn over, but then lay flat on her back again. Trace was as light a sleeper as you could find--tiptoe past her room at two in the morning on the way to the bathroom and she'd jerk awake and, just as likely, holler at you through her bedroom door. Tonight, however, she might have been slipped a Roofie at bedtime.

Putting one hand down the front of my shorts, I clasped the hem of her pajama top in the other and slowly drew it up, exposing her new breasts. Bared to the cool night air, her nipples immediately hardened, making groan at the change and squirm uncomfortably.

Suddenly a very clear image appeared in my head: one of her hard nipples in my mouth, what it would feel like against my tongue, between my lips, and I rubbed doubly-hard on my erection.

Just a minute, I scolded myself. Just a minute and you can do anything you want.

First, I wanted to see her pussy.

Cautiously, because my hands shook, I loosened the tie around her waist, gripped her pajama bottoms with both hands and pulled them off her hips, down her coltish thighs, then removed them from her entirely. Dropping them on the floor, I then slid her panties down as well, removing them also and letting them drop on the floor beside her pajama bottoms. Trying to protect herself, even in sleep, Tracey immediately clamped her legs together and raised her knees. I carefully took one knee in each hand and spread her apart, revealing her lovely treasure. To my surprise she was smooth-shaven, with a pencil-line of fine blonde hair above her cleft as an accent. Her puffy lips, modestly closed, ran down to disappear between her butt cheeks. She showed nothing of her pink insides, and suddenly I feared that she might be menstruating. But I saw no tell-tale string escaping between her lips, and there had been no panty-liner in her underwear.

(Menstruation, as a subject, came up more often than expected in our household. Dad was a Presbyterian minister, with a minister's rigid disposition, but Mom was a pediatrician and Trace a more-or-less typical teenage girl, insofar as her ability to inflict painful embarrassment. More than once they had driven me out of the room with discussions of the female workings. So it was with great relief then, that I didn't have that particular insult thrown in my face.)

I stood back and enjoyed her youthful nakedness from all angles. She was not naked, however, and I diligently worked the top of her pajamas up and over her head and and tossed them on the floor also. She was now perfectly nude, and once I'd arranged her arms at just the right angles, perfectly posed as well.

Impulsively, a leaned down and placed a kiss on the tip of her right nipple, then one on the tip of her left. Then I went and kissed her gently between her legs and she groaned loudly and arched her back, hands gripping fistful's of sheet. Another quick kiss and she flexed her legs wider still, and that was it. Already barely in control of myself, I yanked down my shorts and threw off my tee-shirt and stood there at her bedside, looking down at her, panting and yanking on my cock. I moaned and shivered uncontrollably as adrenalin-rush forced me onto my tiptoes. It took everything I had to let go before the hurricane hit. I backed away and stood in the corner between her dresser and the bedroom wall, panting and shaking. It had been close . . . it had been very close.

Eventually, after the terrible urgency had drained, I crept back and knelt beside the bed. I cupped my hand over her right breast and let it rest there, enjoying the feel of her soft warm flesh. She murmured in her sleep and tucked her head against her right shoulder, as though trying to cuddle with whomever was touching her. I removed my hand and replaced it with my mouth, and her murmuring took on an added urgency. I played my tongue over the tip of the nipple, teasing it into acute hardness, then nibbled it with my teeth. Then I transferred my attention to her other breast, and as I did so, she whimpered and tried pushing me away. Then her hands were running through my hair and caressing my face and I let my right hand steal along the flat of her hard tummy, down to the cleft between her legs and, as the tip of my middle finger slid effortlessly inside her, she flexed and rose up to meet me.

My finger went deep, the tip finding and massaging the dome of her cervix; she moaned deeply in her throat, arched her back higher and pressed her legs flat down on the mattress. Although I thought it impossible, my embedded finger pushed deeper still inside her, until it seemed I could tickle her belly-button from the inside.

With no conscious decision, I glued my mouth to hers, my tongue whip-lashing hers in an effort to get down her throat. My lips mashed so hard against hers that our teeth ground. Then I could take no more and slid onto the mattress beside her, wanting to mount her and claim her virginity as my own. She was a virgin and I knew that she was a virgin. But the instant my cock touched her a tidal wave of sperm erupted out of me and I awoke, heart hammering madly and the insides of my shorts drenched with semen.

Fuck! I thought, slamming back down onto my pillow. It was just a dream.

Yeah, but what a dream, right?

The next morning I got up late. I hadn't slept well after the dream, tossing and turning until I had finally kicked off my clean shorts and stroked myself off onto the mattress. It had been only the barest of help, however, because half an hour later I did it again. I was damned if I'd repeat myself a third time, however, so I forced myself to lay still and counted heartbeats silently in my head. I had just closed my eyes, it seemed, when the blasted alarm clock went off.

As dreams do, my mid-night liaison with Trace had faded away to murky half-images and half-remembered scenes, like those in a movie with half the frames missing. In the cold light of day I was unsure even who the girl had been, though I suspected it was my sister. Rather than exciting me, the thought caused something close to revulsion. Had I really jerked off twice afterwards, visualizing Tracey?

Tracey, it turned out, was already up and dressed. Headed for the bathroom, shower, I had just reached her door as it swung inward and out she stumbled, coat half-on and back-pack half-slung over her right shoulder. She banged right into me and we both banged off opposite walls.

"Fucking watch it, will ya!" I growled at her, bending over to retrieve my tee-shirt.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

Head down, she looked at me quickly from beneath her brows, then she was rushing down the hallway, shoulders bunched, steps awkward and clumping, as always, pigeon-toed, and I thought, What the fuck was that about? scowling after her. When she reached the top of the stairs, she dared a backward glance and revealed a face blotchy and red, eyes shocked-looking, as though she'd just done something horrible I'd find out about. Then she was gone down the stairs, and the details of the dream came thundering back like a locomotive exploding out of a tunnel. I was glad she was not there to see my face.

That evening, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to see Trace or not. But since she never come out of her room, claiming to be sick--Mom took her temperature, peering in her ears and down her throat for signs of a nasty bug, until rebelling, Trace had kicked her out of the room--the decision was not mine to make.

Aggravated, cranky from lack of sleep, I lay down at ten o'clock to watch TV and fell right asleep.

It was two o'clock in the morning again. I knew, because I was staring at the red numerals on Tracey's alarm clock. I didn't remember getting out of bed, or of sneaking out of my room and down the hall, nor of coming into Tracey's room. I just discovered myself standing there next to her bed.

Tonight she was on her stomach, arms akimbo and one leg cocked over the other, discernible even beneath the covers. She snored lightly, mouth open with a dribble of saliva wetting the bed sheet. Her hair was twisted about her head even worse than the night before, and so were the blankets around her body. I could make out nothing beneath her hair from the mouth up.

Her pajamas were also from the night before. The top was half-way up her back, and half-twisted around her torso. Except for her sex, I was reminded of Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future. I reached down, loosened the blankets and drew them down to the foot of the bed. She murmured, shifted position jerkily, then resumed her soft snoring. I couldn't decide if she looked sexy like this, hilarious or pitiful. I left the decision up to my cock: It decided it was sexy.

The first thing I wanted was to see her ass. Her rear end, like everything else about her body, had transformed pretty dramatically over the last six weeks. Her waist had slimmed, her hips had filled out, and her thighs were like those of a fine young philly. I was willing, after last night, to bet the same was true of her ass.

I straightened out her legs, then slid the yellow pajama bottoms off her hips and down her legs. This time, however, instead of simply dropping them on the floor, I removed myself from the confines of my boxer shorts and rubbed the pajama bottom up and down my cock. Marking my territory, if you will. Then, almost giddily, I placed them next to her face on the mattress so that she could breath our combined aromas.

Her panties came next--this time, white with yellow piping around the legs holes and a yellow waistband sporting the Victoria's Secret logo. They slid effortlessly down her hips and revealed a rear end the sight of which took my breath away.

Perfectly sculpted, I thought, a perfect example of what an adult's ass should look like. Looking at it, I accidentally leaked cum onto her bed sheets and knew I was in danger of--forget premature--spontaneous ejaculation.

I slid her panties the rest of the way off, repeated my scenting procedure on them and lay them atop her pajama bottoms. She sensed something, either her lack of clothing below the waist, or the scent of her molester, and emitted a troubled groan while shifting position. She crossed her right calf over her left leg, then reversed the order, which of course, did nothing but expose more of her than before. It was when I removed her pajama top, however, that I got a real surprise: she had wore a bra to bed.

An added bonus, I thought happily.

Laying her pajama top aside, I oh-so-carefully unhooked her bra-strap, thinking as I did so, that as many girls as I had done this to, it had never been with the trepidation and excitement that I felt undoing the bra of my own sister.

Okay, I mused. Now get it off without awakening her.

I did somehow, one arm at a time, lifting and cajoling, tugging and sliding, until finally, triumphantly, I held the captured bra aloft, a handful of captured gold. I snatched in back down again, almost as fast, searching interestedly for an attached tag. I finally found it at the end of the left strap, and twisted it to the light. Size 34-B, it read. Imagine, my sister, a 34-B.

Now she was naked. My cock throbbed and my heart pounded in my chest. The thing to do would be to mount her where she lay, I told myself, spread her legs and shove my cock into her before she awoke . . and before I exploded. Instead, I lay down beside her on the bed, careful not to touch any part of her body with my cock. Placing the tips of my fingers on the knob of bone topping her spine--she shuddered--I let them course slowly down its length to the small of her back, where she moaned again, more deeply this time, and brought them back up to her neck.

I want to fuck you, I thought, feeling her shudder. I want to fuck your mouth, your pussy, in the ass doggy-style. I imagined turning her over and forcing open her mouth and forcefully inserting my cock. I imagined the press of her lips against my shaft as she suckled me, the pressure of her tongue pushing it against the roof of her mouth, of pressing downward until I entered her throat, making her gag, and then the gout of hot sperm rushing down into her stomach.